


Dust Unsettled

by Rehfan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, James Bond - Ian Fleming
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Humor, French Kissing, House Cleaning, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Slash, mentions of bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond and Q clean up their flat and get distracted.</p><p>(from a prompt by rerumfragmenta on Tumblr)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust Unsettled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rerumfragmenta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rerumfragmenta/gifts).



“This place is a pigsty, Q,” exclaimed Bond as he threw down his jacket on the sofa.

“Hmm?” said Q. He was focused on his laptop, absorbed by the mind-numbing task of slogging through staff reviews.

“Q,” said Bond. He bounced a balled-up dirty sock against the quartermaster’s head.

“What the hell?” said Q, looking up to glare at Bond.

“This place,” said Bond, “It stinks.”

“It does?” asked Q. He looked about him seeming to notice the outrageous mess that surrounded him for the first time. As his eyes passed over the week-old pizza (or was it two weeks old?), he grimaced. “I suppose you’re right.”

Bond stormed off to the kitchen and dug underneath the sink for all the cleaning products contained therein. “I come home from a long-arsed mission to this pig mess,” he muttered to himself, “and he’s able to ignore it completely. Unbelievable. He designs the most intricate… and he doesn’t even notice the _smell_ …” His arms loaded up he left the kitchen, willfully ignoring the pile of dirty dishes in the sink.

Back in the sitting room, he found that Q had closed his laptop and was slowly gathering up the errant papers on his desk. Bond stopped and watched him for a moment dumbstruck by the unhurried and methodical way he was picking through the papers. He made his way to the sofa and dumped the contents of his arms onto the cushions. He went back into the kitchen for several bin liners, but as he moved through the room toward his goal, he never took his eyes off of Q. Q seemed to take no notice of the agent’s obvious critique of his methods. He continued to gradually paw, inspect, rearrange, but all he did accomplish was to organize his mess into structured chaos, which is to say that he was doing nothing at all to actually clean.

Bond opened a bin liner with an annoyed snap and loaded it up with stray tech magazines, months outdated; the two week old pizza; used tissues; old teabags; crumpled napkins; empty cans of energy drink; and several dozen receipts for takeaway that crowded one corner of the end table nearest the door. “Why do you keep receipts for takeaway and allow them to gather here?” asked Bond.

“It’s where I sign for them,” shrugged Q. “I just leave them there until I get sick of looking at them.”

“Or until I come home,” muttered Bond. He picked up and organized what cutlery he could find and stacked the small collection of four spoons and one fork on the three plates he managed to find. He scooped the crumbs of innumerable chocolate biscuits off the surface of the coffee table and into the open mouth of the bin liner with the edge of one hand.

One bin bag full, he tied it off and placed it by the front door. He snapped open the next and began clearing away all of the clothes that were strewn about the place. “Hey!” Q objected, “Those are my shirts! And my socks! You are not throwing out my clothing, James!”

“I am gathering it up,” explained Bond, getting angrier by the item, “so that we can wash them. A bin bag is just as good as a laundry basket, my love.”

Q sighed, “Fine.” He re-focused his efforts at his desk. It seemed in no better condition than when he began.

Bond eyed his actions as he continued to pick up things from between the couch- _what were a pair of pants doing in between the sofa cushions? Oh yes_ … Bond grinned as he remembered the night before he left: Q had been so completely horny; he always was before he left the country on a mission. The quartermaster said it was for him to remember what he was fighting for and what he had to remain alive to come home to. This particular night he insisted Bond take him right then and there on the sofa. And he did: twice.

He glanced over at Q. The quartermaster was sorting out thumb drives by color. His smile faded. “If you don’t make some damn headway on that desk of yours, Q, every paper I see is getting thrown out.”

Q’s head snapped up and he narrowed his eyes. “Come anywhere near this desk, Commander Bond, and I’ll have you keel-hauled on our nearest aircraft carrier.”

Bond straightened and dropped the bin bag on the sofa. “Oh really?” he asked.

“I’m as serious as a heart attack,” said Q. “I have staff review reports to write and all of this-“

“And you’re going to stop me from walking the whole four paces it’ll take me to get to where you are?” asked Bond. “Are you armed, quartermaster? Because I think you’ll have to have a weapon on you to stop me. And even then, you’ll have to be very quick on the draw to beat me to that desk of yours.”

“Don’t test me, James Bond,” said Q.

Bond took a step forward and Q stiffened. “You don’t want me to mess with your paperwork, you’d better find a way to stop me,” said Bond.

“James,” said Q, holding out a hand, “Don’t.”

“Make me.”

He wouldn’t have given Q credit for being able to leap the desk in one bound, but the wiry boy managed it. “Don’t come any closer to this desk, James.”

Bond smirked. He strode casually to his lover, placing his face within an inch of Q’s. “How are you going to stop me?” he asked. Bond could see Q’s color rising, but he wasn’t angry; judging by the way the quartermaster was looking at Bond’s mouth and licking his own lips, Bond surmised that Q’s pink cheeks were not the result of a need to reprimand him. “Make me,” whispered Bond.

The first crush against his lips was bruising. Q’s fingertips dug into Bond’s scalp as he gripped his head from behind. As the kiss lingered, however, it softened and smoothed out, creating a slow burn of luxurious and heady warmth rising from their bellies. There were no tongues yet – Q liked to work up to something like that. When he was in command, all Q’s lovemaking had been slow, sensual, and all about the details.

Bond let his arms dangle to his side allowing Q to kiss him without the added distraction of Bond’s hands registering the curve, heat, or sensation of Q’s body. He wanted to touch Q more than anything at this moment. He wanted to wrap his muscled arms around him and pull him close. But he loved not doing it even more. It was a form of “keep-away” that they played occasionally. Bond found focus in the sensory deprivation and discipline of it all. He didn’t like to be tied up, but he was perfectly willing to let go and allow things to happen to him even when he was fairly aching to touch and kiss and caress. It made his orgasms all that much more powerful.

Q was rubbish at it, of course, so Bond let him lead. He hadn’t tied Q up by way of a solution, despite Q being perfectly willing. The concept itself didn’t settle well with Bond. He’d always associated tying up with something evil, twisted, and painful: the prelude to the expected symphony of torture to follow; because in the field, that’s exactly what it meant. On paper bondage always sounded like kinky fun, but in practice… Bond couldn’t bring himself to do it - not to Q.

“Hands on hips, love,” said Q as he bit the agent’s lip. Bond moved his hands to Q’s hips, a light touch of fingertips against the cloth. Achingly slowly, Q pressed himself against Bond as he continued to kiss him and Bond resisted the urge to let his hands wander or to allow Q to fill his arms.

The slip of a tongue, gentle and velvet soft, caressed his bottom lip. Bond opened his mouth. Lips fit together, eliciting a low moan from Q and he explored the cavern presented to him. His hands slipped around Bond’s short-cropped hair, fingertips tracing the shell of an ear, the curve of a neck, the jut of a collarbone.

After weeks in the field, this was a nice tender touch to come home to and Bond couldn’t be more pleased. He let go with a small low hum and felt Q smile against his mouth. The kiss broke and Q said: “Have I stopped you?”

Bond narrowed his eyes. “Merely delayed the inevitable.”

“It’ll do,” Q shrugged and wrapped his arms around Bond’s neck, kissing him deeper than before.

To hell with the state of the sitting room, thought Bond. The only thing he needed was the kiss of the man he loved. The bin liners could wait.


End file.
